


Cold Hands

by Aris



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Hospitals, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Originally posted on mibba, Patrick-centric, Self-Harm, Starvation, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting, i started this fic as a place to vent in 2012 please do NOT use it to trigger yourself, on tour, read with 'entire work' on otherwise the small chapters are annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 6,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like he doesn't have any weight to lose; it’s really not. This is good for him, good for the band.</p><p>Good for everyone.</p><p>*** from 2012! discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big warning:
> 
> \- this is a discontinued piece of work  
> \- i wrote most of this back in 2012  
> \- this fic revolves around unhealthy relationships with eating disorder suffers  
> \- they are co dependent and destructive, are NOT model relationships  
> \- there is 0 romance in this fic   
> \- if you share any of the characters thoughts persistently please seek help do NOT wait
> 
> sincerely, the author, who will have to live with an eating disorder for the rest of their lives because of relationships like this (:

It starts when Pete signs that band; _Panic at the Disco_ they're called, and their lead singer is a bomb on stage. They make the charts and they make Pete's heart; especially the guitarist. The guitarist they call Ryan with stick thin legs and a rib cage you can see through his shirts, Ryan who won't touch a scrap of food if he thinks it has more calories than it's worth and seems to be stuck to vitamin water and carrot sticks. _They're nice,_ he says when he gets laughed at, and everyone sends him a bemused look and continues to stuff their face with pizza.

Everyone but Patrick.

Ryan is some kind of angel smudged in eyeliner and clouded in smoke. He smiles like he's about to collapse any second and when Brendon hugs him Patrick notices the tense breath in, the sucking in of his stomach. Patrick notices the second glances in mirrors and the casual hands laced around stick thighs, fingertips touching with space to spare. Patrick notices all this and feels a terrible, twisting feeling in his own enlarged gut.

That's what Pete likes.

Well.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick starts by skipping breakfast.

It’s simple, really. He's never hungry in the mornings and he only ever eats then out of habit, out of desire. His stomach doesn't rumble as he passes up on Andy's offer of poptarts and cereal, though he doesn't miss Andy's concerned look. _I never miss breakfast_ and that's true enough. It's clear to anyone he is a food lover and a food addict; his bandmates would know that the best, and Patrick can't remember the last time he missed a meal and didn't make up for it later on in the day.

Pete bounds from the bunks; looking unfairly attractive in a vest and boxers, hand running through last night’s straightened hair. Patrick looks away from the noticeably flat stomach and stares instead into his coffee, not thinking how he looked in the long mirror this morning. Chubby, fat, obese, ugly , he couldn't see his feet for god sake.

"Already eaten, Patrick?" asks Pete, on his tip toes reaching for the cereal. Andy stops mid spoon raise and fixes Patrick with an odd, undefined look. Patrick looks away.

"Something like that."


	3. Chapter 3

He skips breakfast, the next day too, and doesn't eat any snacks with the band.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you ill?" Patrick looks up from his tapping hands and across the room to where Andy sits, bottle of water tucked between his thin legs. Pete looks up, too, and cocks his head to the side in a brooding sort of way.

"I haven't been feeling well." tumbles from Patrick's lips before he can think of a better excuse (it's not like not eating one meal is a bad thing, he's been eating more than enough over the last few years; he doesn't know why he's lying. It feels bad and wrong but he can't take it back). Pete instantly looks concerned and jumps up, taking a quick seat next to Patrick and laying a hand on his forehead. Patrick doesn't look at Andy and tries not to think about having Pete at such close quarters; so close to his layers of layers of perspiring fat, but it's impossible with his hand on his forehead and his other on his thigh.

"Why didn't you say so before? Can you still play the shows? How long have you been feeling like this?" Pete asks in a rush, taking his hand away with a frown.  
 __  
1  
2  
3  
4  
  
"I'm fine, really. Just a little tired." He tries to brush it off, shuffling to the side and away from Pete; carefully locking eyes with the black carpet of the back room. Joe shrugs and Pete doesn't let up.

Patrick closes his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick doesn’t look in the mirror when he wakes up anymore because he knows what’s he’ll see. Fat. It’s not even like, like there’s something wrong with him in the head; he is just fat. He’s had comments and he’s had experiences (can’t fit through that gap between sofa and the table) and he knows it’s not imaginary. Knows this bulk is real.

Still, he hides his dieting from his bandmates. It’s embarrassing, god damn it, that he even let himself get like this. It’s embarrassing that his bandmates had never tried to stop him eating that extra slice and it’s embarrassing he’s been going on stage for years with an inflated stomach.

He’s embarrassed.

It’s one of these times, right before a show, when Patrick is crouched in on himself staring into a bathroom mirror, that it happens. He hears the very distinctive sound of someone throwing up and he hesitates, hands under the tap before turning to see if it’s anyone he knows.

He’s barely started to approach the offending cubicle when there’s a flush and the door swings open. Patrick feels his throat close up and he can feel his skin prickle. It’s Ryan, shaky and pale, rubbing circles into his stomach with a reddened hand. He stops when he sees Patrick and looks him coolly in the eyes, as if he wasn't just bent over a toilet.

Patrick can’t move. Ryan is his... his obsession. That rib cage and those hips and _fuck_ those hands. He wants them all so much he feels a spinning behind his eyes. It’s not even that he’s attracted to Ryan, though Ryan isn’t unattractive, it’s just he’s Patrick ideal body. Ideal everything.

Ryan walks on towards the sinks, splashing water onto his face with skeletal shaking hands. Patrick tries not to stare at his prominent spine.

“Are you ill?” He unconsciously echoes Andy’s words, instantly shifting his eyes to the dirty venue bathroom floor. He can almost feel Ryan’s pause, smell the hesitation.

“I guess you could say that.”

Ryan’s been gone ten minutes when Patrick sticks the finger down his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s not like he doesn’t have any weight to lose; it’s really not. This is good for him, good for the band.

Good for everyone.


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick feels dizzy on stage but he hasn’t fainted like Ryan. He drinks lots of water and stops drinking coke and various other fizzy drinks scattered around the buses. His teeth suffer enough without the sugar and the calories aren’t even worth it anymore. He tells himself that it’s just his body adjusting to the lack of one meal, and nothing to do with his recent activities.

After lunch he sticks his fingers down his throat and if Pete were to catch him it would be ‘Still ill, you know, I think I’m getting better, though.’ But Pete doesn’t catch him because Pete is always with Ryan.

(Ryan’s jeans are baggy now and his eyes are hollow. His hair has started to thin and he broke his rib when he fainted after leaving the stage last night. Brittle bones. It’s not major and he still goes on stage, his t-shirts like sweaters and his skin like a freezer. Patrick sees Spencer cradling his hand and watching him with care and knows he knows and fuck, all Patrick wants Ryan to do is to gain weight. Not so he stops dying, but so that Patrick can be skinner than him. Prettier. So that Pete likes him more.

Patrick hates himself for that.)

Andy tries to corner him and Patrick finds excuse after excuse to avoid being on the bus at all, really. Brendon is fun and Brendon can play almost as many instruments as him; they talk in notes and brass and together they make these tunes that sort of go like Patricks thoughts and Brendon’s emotions. It sounds a lot like hell but they don’t say anything to each other about it, what they hear.

Brendon is skinny and curvy and Brendon has this beautiful smile and beautiful voice and when he gets a tune before him, Patrick sinks a little deeper into himself. It used to be that music was the one thing he was good at, and that he didn’t have to be attractive to be an amazing musician. But Brendon is a better version of Patrick, model 2.0.

He plays, nonetheless, and considers Brendon a friend. After all; he’s been friends with attractive people all his life.


	8. Chapter 8

No.

He can’t possibly – he hasn’t been, oh fuck, he.

Patrick stares in disgust at his reflection. At himself. His middle seemed bigger than before, his arms flabby, his thighs fighting for space between them. He tugs, restless, at the fat spewing from his skeleton and almost weeps in repulsion.

He’s disgusting. Unsavoury. Nauseating. He doesn’t want to be in the same room as himself let alone the same body, the same mind. He digs in his fingers, gauging at the flesh but not breaking the skin. No wonder Pete was more interested in Ryan.

Ryan the perfect.

Patrick shakes his head at the stupid name but quickly stops as a wave of dizziness washes over him. He grabs for the sink and blinks tightly, staring down into the plug hole.

He can see it all now.


	9. Chapter 9

Patrick’s always been a little shy on stage – the caps, the heavy clothing. Pete’s the star. But now Patrick doesn’t want to be seen by anyone; especially not hundreds of screaming fans and judgmental eyes. Patrick got fatter. Patrick gained weight.

He can see the magazine headings now.

At the same time, Patrick likes working up a sweat; like the calories he’s burning. He knows he must look disgusting but he’s making progress, god fucking damn progress. When he’s skinny he’ll be able to strut out on stage and know he looks like the rest of the band; normal, happy.

If he could just lose this weight.

“Patrick?” Patrick looks up from where’s he’s been staring at the empty lyric book, spaced out in his own mind, and up to a frowning Andy. He takes a mental stock on where everyone is; Joe’s with the techs and Pete – Pete’s with Ryan. As ever. Andy should be with Joe, too. But he’s not.

He’s here.

Patrick gulps.

“Patrick, I.” Andy sits down next to him on the small bus coach; not too close, not too far away. He doesn’t look at him, rather putting his face in his hands and rubbing warily at his skin. Patrick watches.

“I’m worried.”


	10. Chapter 10

It’s not him.

Patrick is flushed red, locked in the bus’s tiny bathroom. He hadn’t said anything, but he’d assumed (so fucking stupid) and when Andy came out with it, well.

What did Patrick expect?

He’s been so self involved with his weight and all the fucking calories that he can’t seem to escape he didn’t notice the guilty expressions and the sharp hips. He didn’t notice himself reflected in another.

 _‘Pete’s been losing so much weight’_ he said _‘I’m worried about Pete’_ and thinking back Patrick feels like hell. He also feels jealous. Andy noticed Pete’s weightloss and not Patricks– well, fuck, Patrick wouldn’t be surprised. He’s so big you wouldn’t notice half a ton of bulk to go missing.

It still kind of hurts in the same way it hurts when Ryan laughs and his ribcages sticks through his t-shirts.

Andy says something about an intervention and about Ryan but Patrick can’t remember (he’s been forgetting a lot, lately. He thinks he agreed to something but the fat under his hand is cold and malleable and the back of his throat itches like it wants to bathe in acid.

Maybe later.


	11. Chapter 11

He won’t stop crying.

It’s kind of beautiful, really, how broken he is. He’s so carefree, so happy, and he carries the weight of everyone’s pain on his back.

 _Weight._ What an unpleasant word.

Patrick rubs a hand across Brendon’s back slowly, feeling the slow heat rise from the friction. Brendon has his head buried in Patricks shoulder and he can accurately feel the hot salt of tears, the tangy sense of self-hatred. Patrick knows the sensation well; his cold hands sting with the salt every night.

They’re drunk and it’s 3am and they’ve stopped in Amsterdam for the night and Pete and Ryan left early. Brendon took one look at their empty seats and started to shake. Patrick felt empty. It’s not like he didn’t know, because he did, all too well, it’s just that.

To have it thrown in his face like that.

He preferred it when it he couldn’t see it.

Brendon says ‘I love him.’ And Patrick feels the depths of his being fall away from him, the mere flesh of his oversized body holding him in place next to Brendon. Brendon says ‘I worry about him so much.’ and Patrick says ‘I know.’ and it’s all tears and horror from there.

When Spencer comes to get Brendon hours later, it’s that knowing look and gentle nod that tells Patrick he’s not the only one who knows. He doesn’t want to hear Brendon’s gentle cries as he leaves but they sound so much like his missing heart he lost somewhere in a toilet basin.


	12. Chapter 12

The floor is cold on his knees and it almost feels like his bones are digging into the tiles; though, of course that’s his imagination. His knees are as padded out as the rest of him. It’s just that sometimes, with all the starving, he thinks he’s skinny. It’s a brief moment when the guitar techs arm looks bigger than his, or when he’s got a bottle of water and Andy’s got a pizza.

It’s his imagination. Is all.

He slumps against the side of the cubicle, smelling sick and acid on his breath and wishing he hadn’t started eating all that time ago. He’d have Pete by now, if he’d just learned to control himself. He’d be the pretty, skinny boy at Pete’s side instead of Ryan and his blooming ribcage and skeletal fingers.

There’s a bang and Patrick freezes, hands scrambling on the cold floor. He sucks in his breath and tries not to feel the seizing pain of his cardiovascular muscles as they clamp down harshly. Light footsteps echo across the bathroom, getting close and closer to Patrick's little hideaway.

He stares at the converse visible just under the wall and can't think why they look familiar.

A pack of mints rolls under the divide.

“You left them on the table.”

Ryan’s voice is scratchy and eerily calm. Patrick winds his fingers carefully around the pack and pops one out. He doesn’t move from the floor.

“Soon you’ll have nothing to throw up.”

“What?” Patrick’s answers come stumbling out, all weak and faltering. Nothing like Ryan’s. Nothing ever is.

Ryan laughs.

“Soon it’s just blood and stomach acid. It eats away at your throat, you know. Ruins your singing voice.”

There’s a pause.

“Not that I have much of a voice.” Patrick pulls the mint into his mouth and bites down, letting the taste overwhelm his own guilt.

“But you do, Patrick.”

The converse disappear from sight and Patrick can’t say anything as the door slams shut and the tapping of water on basic becomes oh so apparent in the resounding silence.

His throat burns.


	13. Chapter 13

"Patrick."

He turns to look up at the sound of his name, hands resting into a relaxed arch on the table where they'd been frantically tapping a moment ago. It was lunch time.

There was food everywhere.

Pete smiled warily at Patrick and slid onto the chair across from him, no plate or snack in sight. The glance Pete made towards the table nearest, consisting of Joe and Andy and a large pizza, made Patrick's skin crawl in its familiarity. Fear. Want. Longing.

His hands picked up the beat again.

Pete looked ill, in the least obvious of ways. His hair was perfectly done, eyeliner unsmudged, his clothes were neat, unstained and a little bit baggy. That was the problem. They'd been on tour for three months. By month one most people had given up on appearances anywhere but on stage; it was food-stained clothes and fluffed up hair and sleep-stricken faces. It wasn't neat or nice or perfect. Patrick guesses Pete doesn't get near enough any food to have clothes stained with it - and that when you cut food out, vitamins get cut out too. Patrick's skin was pasty and dry and breaking at every opportunity - he could say the same for his hair. 

Pete could probably relate.

"Not eating lunch?" Pete smiled again, trying to catch Patrick's eye. 

"Where's Ryan?" 

The smile quickly fled his face and he looked back down to his hands, picking at the skin there - almost to the beat of Patrick's fingers. Patrick wonders how much he eats a day; wonders if it's more than he does, or less than Ryan.

"He's... not feeling well. Said I should go for lunch for him."

It's enough to make Patrick snort, but he refrains from doing so. Ryan, eating? The only thing that passed Ryan's lips were the ends of pens as he wrote and maybe, when he was alone with Pete-

Patrick stopped drumming his fingers.

"I, uh. Brendon said the pizza's good. You should have some."

He stands up to leave, ignoring Pete's surprised expression and digging his nails tightly into his hands.

He's not jealous of Pete's weightloss.

He's not.


	14. Chapter 14

It's something like.

Like how Brendon has started casting his worried eyes at Pete, too. Everyone's noticed he's lost his energy, his motivation - the thing that's keep them going all these years. Pete still smiles that weary, comfortable smile but it's hollow, like his stomach, and the way his collar bones cut through the fabric of his t-shirt is distracting enough Patrick never notices anymore. 

Ryan, Patrick decides, is like a leach. He latches on, bones sharp and digging and he smiles, fucking smiles, and he writes all these pretty words that twist and turn round and round your grey matter till all you can think is 'I wasn't born to be a skeleton' yet Ryan was. Born to be a skeleton. It's in the way his cheeks dip in and how _right_ it looks to see his spine protruding gently from the angles of his back. He's elegant in a way that makes Patrick's eyes water when he'd bent over on the bathroom floor, he's dying just so _prettily_ that Patrick has to take a breath when he sees delicate, pale things wrapped loosely on Pete's wrist. Fingers meeting.

Ryan sucks everything out of you. He takes into into himself, that adoration, those idolising stares, those crisp morning smiles, and he loses it somewhere in himself. Somewhere dark and coiled that, if you peer too closely, is visible on the edges of his smiles. In the curves of his ribs. He takes it all in and he can't quite hold on long enough to force down breakfast and then he's away again, fraying away at the edges of other's so he might, briefly, be complete.

So, Brendon comes to Patrick, worried and anxious. Patrick tells him he asked Pete to eat (it counts, right?) and Brendon takes his lip beneath his teeth, glancing towards the two skeletons in the corner. The skeletons in their closets. Ryan is tired and worn and ragged and the water he clutches to his bone is working away at the slight warmth of his hand, turning his skin a shade paler than what was already dead. Pete's head is buried in Ryan's shoulder, his own hand shaking slightly as it clings to a skeletal thigh, anchoring him to Ryan. 

Like Ryan could drift away at any moment,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://anxiousmechanic.tumblr.com/


	15. Chapter 15

_Ryan's not feeling well_ turns into Ryan passing out and getting submitted into hospital in San Francisco. Pete is worried to hell and back, pacing and cruising and twisting his hands together, but can't get close to Ryan with Spencer glaring him down, with Jon's cool gaze pinning him in the hospital room. Brendon is against Patrick's side, muttering under his breath about how Ryan looks so skinny now, looks like just bones.

It makes Patrick feel sick.

Not that he needs an excuse anymore. It's sort of like _what shall I do today?_ and then a glance in the mirror that tells him _exactly_ what he's going to do today, and it does not involve any food. Patrick hates to ruin plans, he really does, so when he tells himself, eye glued to the mirror, that he is not eating today, he takes it pretty seriously. Joe with a thick-breaded sandwich and Andy with an inexplicable amount of candyfloss can't stop him, won't stop him, especially when Ryan glides past - a small smile playing on his lips, eyes not even falling briefly on the food. Control. He's perfect.

Patrick wants.

But he can't get away with Brendon there, wouldn't leave Brendon like that, anyway. One of the few things he might be good at is being there for people when they need someone. Not him, just someone. He can do that. For Brendon. 

It's 1am when the emotions start running too high - when the doctor says _'anorexia nervosa'_ and _'bulimia nervosa'_ and something about _severely underweight_ and _been happening for a long time_. Spencer spits venom at Pete, accusing him of encouraging Ryan, of helping him lose weight - of been his sick little _ana buddy_. Pete just says no, no, no, _no_ like it could make any difference, but it's an admittance in itself. He gives it away with the look in his eyes when he draws his hands back from his face, in the way he's thinking hard, casting his mind back - eyes to the right and stance defeated.

At 1:37am Pete leaves, weakly telling Jon to tell Ryan he's going to stay out of his life.

Fall Out Boy's manager calls Patrick at 4am, asking what the hell happened, why Pete, the golden boy, isn't picking up his phone - ranting on how they were meant to be on the bus four hours ago. Patricks hangs up and strokes Brendon's hair, meeting Spencer's eyes carefully, feeling all the world like Spencer was the alpha male of whatever sort of pack they had going here.

Jon goes to pull Panic! out of the tour at 6am.

Ryan wakes up three hours later.


	16. Chapter 16

Ryan doesn't look like he's in control anymore. His eyes are bloodshot, hungry and yearning, and he pulls weakly at the buckled restraints stopping him from ripping out the feeding tube. His paleness surpasses that of the sheets, the walls, and there's a violent, ugly way to his yellowing smile when he brandishes it.

He won't meet Patrick's eyes, won't look up at him as calories are pumped into his veins. The mints feel heavy in his pocket. He's ashamed, Patrick knows, not of being as he is, but for collapsing. Being found out before he reached his goal. Patrick wonders what goal weight he was on, how close he was to the next. The way his bones press through his skin sends a shiver through Patrick's hand, spikes a fear behind his eyes.

Does he want this?

"Where's Pete?" Brendon falters at his side, withdrawing his full, youthful hands from their outreaching position, subtracting his offer to Ryan. The hurt is distinguishable in the cliche of his eyes. He is hit with an urge to protect, to shelter.

The storm of Ryan stares on.

"He left. He's not coming back," Jon tells him, clear as day, from his slumped position on a plastic chair. Ryan's hand curls for nothing, wants for less, and he lets his gaze fall from grace. He doesn't seem surprised, though, he doesn't seem much of anything. Washed out before he hit twenty five, let alone thirty.

No one reaches out to touch Ryan and Ryan doesn't reach out to touch anyone. There's a silence that should be tense, should be aching with everything that's gone unsaid since shadows started to grow under cheekbones. But there's a tiredness, a aching, deep, settling fatigue that lays on the air like a great, dusty sheet. A museum in which Ryan is centre stage, propped up by pillows and deadening muscle, fragile bones. He is a display, stark lighting upon hair that thins, offish skin a shade of utterly inoffensive white - a waxy, almost unnatural look to it - jaunty bones that beckon, the angle of his collarbones welcoming all to the staircase rib cage below, the sharp collapse even further below that.

A statue to space, to the empty atom, to the lacking.

Patrick shouldn't find it so beautiful.


	17. Chapter 17

Before he left on tour, Patrick threw out anything vaguely perishable and regretted it when he drove past a homeless shelter on his way to Pete's. He hates wasting food, when he's so lucky to have it at all - though it's one thing not to waste food, and another to over indulgence. He called his manager the first chance he got and told him to donate $2,000 from his paycheck to the nearest charity for the homeless; it's more than he spent on the food he threw away, undoubtedly, and pushing money at his guilt is only a temporary fix. He adds it onto his list, the one full of things he hates about himself, and wonders if he could ever do enough - be enough - to ever cross that out.

He's a fat, bumbling fool so over indulged with food it's a wonder he even spared a thought to anyone else in the canteen, let alone the world.

Patrick packs away what he left - the nuts, the cans, the miscellaneous plastic packages - into white bags and leaves them near the door. He'll take them to the shelter, the one he drove past, and he'll give them to people who really need it. The shear quantity of them embarrases him, and he feels red in the face that he could have ever even considered eating any of that. Not when he clearly doesn't need it, shouldn't need it.

Hazel eyes, big and blown and framed by shadowed bone, flash into his mind and his fingers curl into the fat on his stomach. Can he get as low as Ryan? Can he make it the bottom? He takes up so much space in a room, so much _presence_ he doubts he ever could be as lithe. Have those hands, those wonderful hands, and see his ribcages pushing against the cloth of his t-shirt, blossoming in boney glory.

And he remembers Ryan's empty grip, his slipping eyes, and he ignores the dropping in his stomach, the deep resounding fear that pulls on him.

He won't be like Ryan. He could never get skinny enough.

###### 

It hurts to be so surprised.

Pete knocks on his door at precisely one-twenty AM, and Patrick knows this because he was up watching the seconds tick away, feeling the soft lights of the fridge beckon to him. He told himself no, and his body told him yes, but Patrick can't believe it - can never believe it - while the mirror flings accusation after accusation at him, staring down his ghastly figure with a sordid attention to detail becoming of something far more animate than painted glass. It's empty, anyway. The fridge.

Patrick can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Pete cry since he's met him. It's not a pretty sight, is never a pretty sight, and Pete, all bones and shadows and tears - throws himself at Patrick like he's the last thing he has left on this world. Patrick doesn't think about how he hasn't spoken to Pete for weeks, how Pete's hips are sharp against his own and he definitely doesn't think about how, despite everything, Pete's hands are oddly warm where they press into his back. It's nice. He hugs back, something that's strangely unfamiliar, and feels his breathe fan against Pete's neck.

"God... Patrick..." Pete mutters against his skin, pausing when Patrick pulls him towards him harder on reflex, revelling at the sound of his name from Pete. _Pete_. "I messed up... So bad Patrick. And now - now Ryan. I-"

He squeezes his eyes.

It's always Ryan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I remembered this exists. sorry all


	18. Chapter 18

Pete bought alcohol.

He drinks it down in shots, the vodka, in the little shot glasses Andy bought Patrick when they were in England, the tacky ones with the mini Union Jacks and Big Bens on the side. Pete says to Patrick how many calories are in each little glass, fifty-five, and he keeps crying. Opaque tears into opaque drink, into Pete. The light on the cabinet flickr absentmindedly in a warm beige, casting strange shadows across the creme carpet, like monsters stretching and flashing towards them. He closes his eyes.

Fifty-five calories.

Patrick stomach turns - calories are far worse than any monster he can dream up.

Then Pete stands and staggers from the meager living room, into the white-lit kitchen. Patrick can only stare at the bottle of vodka left behind, where it sits on coffee table he can see that a quarter is gone from its volume. How much was that? Two hundred calories? Three hundred? All empty, all fattening. And Pete had drank it all, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't all he used to eat in a week, Ryan hanging from his side like some morbid accessory. Patricks fingers begin to drum on his thigh, suddenly anxious to have so much within reach. Could he control himself? Of course he could - or could he? He was a fat, gluttonous pig, after all. It's how he got here in the first place, stuffing his face with -

"Patrick?"

Pete's in the doorway to kitchen, holding the frame with hands that are still too small, still too skeletal. He looks tired, so tired, and Patrick's never seen so many years hang from his friends eyes, never seen death so saliently creep at the wrinkles in Pete's skin, in the black of his eyes. He is reminded of Pete's morality, of his terrifying closeness to the end, to being away from Patrick, away from everything.

"Patrick," he whispers this time, and Patrick realises he's shaking. Pete comes towards him, steady and wide-eyes, his lip trembling minutely as he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of him. Patrick can feel Pete's hips brushing on the inside of his thighs, can hear Pete's suddenly too-loud breathing, smell the alcohol from him. Pete gently takes his face in his hands, and tips it down towards him, looking up at Patrick's face with such despair Patrick can't remember who he is for one, brief, blissful moment.

A deep breath.

"Why is there no food in your house?"


	19. Chapter 19

But Pete was drunk.

Patrick didn't cry, didn't move, and Pete was drunk, so drunk. He sobbed and heaved (and how many calories does that burn?) and he told Patrick that:

"He always told me not to. He always told me, eat for me today. He was always so cold. And I didn't want to eat because I read his diary and he hates us - I mean. He hates them. The people who eat. 

The fat scum.

I didn't want him to hate me," 

It sounds childish, it sounds like being a long haired teenager with bare wrists and it feels like undiluted purity. Vulnerability unwashed. Patrick remembers writing lyrics like that, and his shoulder is wet from Pete's tears, and he would write them in a ugly metallic notebook with spaceships on the corners of the pages, because what the fuck else did he have to write on. The lamp glares upon his unshed tears, fogging his eyesight to a hazy mist of childhood pathways and roadblocks. Seeing. Never speaking. He itches for a pen, for the chance to write his thoughts. But Pete's spilling out all over him, soaking him in tears and fears and the feel of his ribcage, cool against thighs. It tastes like longing.

Patrick stares at the carpet, and Pete whispers about mints and sore joints and bottles of water. His breath is another universe away, warm and sad against Patrick's neck, while Patrick floats to the beige ceiling and watches dust crawl to his engorged corpse. There is a longing to disconnect, to pass through the roof and to writhe in the plaster between, fingertips brushing on frigid air beyond. 

Blink.

God, he fucking hated vodka.


	20. Chapter 20

But Pete was drunk.

He's gone in the morning.

Patrick cradles the bottle gently in his hands, walks it through to the kitchen, and places it on the counter side. He feels its glare on his back when he turns round. Self conscious, he rubs at his knuckles, feeling small scabs there from the rip of teeth, the sting of abused skin thrumming up his arm to his heart where it pools, poisonous and poised.

Strike.

There's a note, on the fridge. One. Two. Patrick takes the bottom if it between his fingers, pulling it down and away as he stares down at the scribbled words.

"Ryan's out of hospital. I'm sorry."

And then an arrow, pointing to the handle of fridge.

"FILL ME UP."

_Ryan, Ryan, Ryan._

The note floats slowly to the ground, swaying and back and forth in an invisible current, almost hypnotic in its lackadaisical movement, the yellow of its paper abruptly stark against the cold, linoleum floor as it comes to land in its final resting place, a thumb mark imprinted heavily on its side smudging the word sorry into an almost unreadable blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my plan was to combine this with the next chapter, but... this story has been going for 2 years. you know my excuses


	21. Do You Know What I'm Seeing?

Hey guys, I have no idea how to start this.

So, I've been writing this fanfic since 2012, originally posted on Mibba and then cross- posted here. 

I started writing this at a dark time in my life, and it's always been something casual that I can chip back in on every now and then, but for the last year or so It's been a drag, a little bit of a reminder of life back then which, depending on your point of view, was worse or better than life is now. I'm currently in treatment for my ED and has medication and all that good jazz, and it hurts a little to have this pop up again every month like a bad ghost.

I want to remind everyone that this fic displays a dangerous, pro-ana relationship. I know a lot of my readers come from certain websites, and I want to emphasis that this fic was never, ever intended to be pro-ana or anything the like. This is just a story I made up chapter by chapter to vent my feelings and I projected some unhealthy relationships I had with other sufferers onto it. I feel like it's really been lacking in quality and quantity for a while now and I don't want to keep producing a sub standard chapter every year, so yeah - I'm doing it. Pulling the metaphorical plug. I may consider re-writing this all brand new and shiny in... maybe a few years. When I can look back at all this and not feel all horribly empty inside.

Now, if you want some resolution, the two outlines for alternate endings are below.

Additionally, Jimmy made me this **[beautiful fanmix](http://8tracks.com/dogears582/cold-hands)** last year and if you're reading this, I'm so sorry I never finished this and never finished writing you that ficlet. Starting things I can't finish is a bit of a theme in my life.

###### 

Panic at the Disco split up, which is why Pete leaves so suddenly from Patricks home. A conversation takes place between Pete and Ryan that establishes that though their relationship was unhealthy, neither of them blames eachother, though it is insinuated that Ryan doesn't feel like it's ever going to get better. Pete then returns to Patrick, after having a conversation with Spencer about how in love Patrick is with him. They hold a conversation about Patricks ED, Pete feels guilty, they both internally blame each other but don't word it. Pete says he knows how Patrick feels, and that he doesn't know how he feels. It's insinuated it might be mutual, but they're both too messed up to have a healthy relationship in the light of all that's happened, a mention that it would probably be 'another Ryan' and that Patrick 'deserves more than being someone else's ghost'.

The next chapter follows Patrick applying to get help, using symbolism such as clean apartments and emphasis on happier memories/Patrick noticing happy things around him to hint that all will be well. He receives a lot of support from Andy and Brendon. Pete puts the band on hold and goes off on some soul searching journey. There are mentions that Joe and Andy are continuing some of their own musical work, and that Jon has his own musical career and Spencer is working on something with Brendon but have moved close to home again to be with Ryan.

The last chapter can be either of this two:

1 - Patrick receives a phone call, informing him of Ryans suicide and the funeral date. There, he sees Pete again. They agree to meet up for coffee 'some time soon' and the end is them standing side by side, watching Spencer stand over Ryans grave, gripping a hospital band - note-ably, there should be details insinuating Spencers hands are quite cold. There is a hopeful feeling for their relationship but a feeling of repetition in Spencer's own behavior. 

2 - The funeral occurs privately, neither Pete or Patrick are invited as those close to Ryan still do not forgive Pete. Instead, the two see each other again by chance in an airport at 6am. Pete mentions Ryans suicide, Patrick takes his hand,Petes hands are warm, and together they watch the sun rise over the concrete plain of the airport landing strip. 

And epilogue idea was extracts from Ryan's lyric book or diary.

###### 

**Songs I listened to over these 3 (almost 4) years that were sources of inspiration:  
** Lua - Bright Eyes  
4st 7lbs - Manic Street Preachers  
She's a Handsome Woman - P!ATD  
Jesus Christ - Brand New  
April 5th - Neutral Milk Hotel  
Northern Downpour (alternate version)- P!ATD  
Everyone But You - The Young Veins  
Lady of the Flowers - Placebo  
Behind The Sea (alternate version) - P!ATD  
I Know It's Over - The Smiths

 

Now, the ink is running toward the page, I must leave you all. Thank you so much to everyone who ever read, commented, subscribed or bookmarked this work, and between all the sites this is posted on, that's a hell lot of you. 

For every one of you, I hope everything goes well, and that if things aren't alright now, they will be. 

Thank you


End file.
